Free Black Is the Fashion for Dying by Jonathan Latimer

the hunters’ tent, was empty.
    â€œHerbie!” Gordon shouted. “Herbie! Herbie!”
    â€œI’ll get it,” Blake said, trotted across the camp to the wardrobe cabinet by the far wall.
    Seated cross-legged on the floor, Alf and his assistant were cleaning revolvers. They stared as Blake rounded the cabinet, and then Alf, clapping a hand to his forehead, exclaimed, “ Mama mia! ” and bounded to his feet and began to ransack a drawer in the cabinet.
    â€œWhat’sa matter?” the assistant asked.
    â€œWebley! We forget Webley!” Alf produced it from the drawer, flipped out the clip, saw that it was empty, said, “Blanks! Where in hell blanks?”
    Galvanized, the assistant joined him at the drawer. “White box!” he said. “White box. Here. White box!” He lifted the white box from the drawer, let a stream of shining blanks cascade into his hand. “How many?”
    â€œFill ’em up,” Alf said, rapidly thumbing blanks into the clip. “Give ’em plenty.” He wedged in the final blank, wedged the clip in the automatic, said, “ Mama mia! ” again and ran off towards the set, waving the Webley in the air.
    When Blake got back to the platform, Herbie was making his report to Gordon. “… all in place. Hunting party. Litter bearers. Lisa. Graves.”
    Gordon swung around to face the set. “Graves. Ashton Graves!”
    From inside the hunters’ tent Graves’ muffled voice replied, “What is it, old boy?”
    The tent flaps were pushed apart and Graves emerged. He limped to the tent pole from which the holster hung, the Webley now in it, and halted, blinking in the bright light. He looked like a man with malaria or jaundice, Blake thought, his corpselike skin turning the make-up that was supposed to be suntan a muddy yellow. But that was all right. As McGregor, the old white hunter, he was supposed to be sick.
    â€œYou know your lines, Ashton?” Graves asked.
    Graves nodded.
    â€œCan you say ’em?”
    Graves nodded again.
    â€œLet’s hear you say, ‘The pickled parrot poked the pretty polly.’”
    Graves managed a sickly smile. “Sobriety test, old boy?”
    â€œSay it!”
    Graves hesitated. The set was unnaturally silent. Eyes watched from everywhere: the native cooks by the fire, the shapes on the catwalks above, the people massed back of the cameras. Blake felt a surge of pity. The poor legless guy. A great star once. And still a fine actor. To be subjected to this. Still, Gordon had to be sure.
    Suddenly Graves spoke, his voice steady, each word perfectly distinct, perfectly enunciated.
    â€œCould kill Caresse, completely compunctionless,” he said slowly. “Calumnious, carnivorous, concupiscent, consummately contemptible creature.”
    If the set had been silent before, it was an etherless void in outer space now. Time had stopped and in stopping had stopped sound. Blake, listening to nothing, discovered he was not breathing. He breathed.
    â€œOkay, Ash,” Gordon said at last. “I’ll go along with that.”
    Time started again. A breathy whispering filled the stage. Graves limped back to the tent, let the flaps fall behind him. Herbie, beside Blake, whistled softly. “Zow! What’s calumnious mean?”
    â€œIt ain’t good,” Blake said.
    Gordon, back on the platform again, said, “Let’s roll, Herbie,” and Herbie pulled the mike, held cupped in a palm, to his lips and the loudspeakers said:
    â€œ Quiet, please. Quiet on the set. This is a take. ”
    Tense but not hurrying, Gordon examined the monitors. Blake moved closer, knowing he would never be noticed. This was something, this brainstorm of Fabro’s. He wondered what effect it would have on writers. Gordon, bent over the middle monitor, said, “Roll ’em.”
    â€œ Roll ’em, ” the loudspeakers repeated.
    The hoods on